


“Love” Letters

by ChooChoo_Crew_Anywho



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Torture, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Gang Rape, Happy Ending, Lesbian Sex, Letters, Love Letters, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17535098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChooChoo_Crew_Anywho/pseuds/ChooChoo_Crew_Anywho
Summary: Chane has been receiving strange “love” letters from a lonely, imprisoned Ladd Russo





	“Love” Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! Contains: Rape fantasies, Sexual assault, Vomiting and other sick and twisted themes / Triggers.  
> It you do not want to read a fan fiction with these themes, click away now!  
> I don’t want to hurt any real people!

Chane eyed the stack of letters resting on her writing desk.  
The stack of paper envelopes was large enough to bind with a rubber band, though you wouldn’t be able to tell with the way they were blindly chucked onto the wooden table. The messy pile of letters were half opened and ripped slightly in places, like they had been bitten by an enraged dog, their forms crinkled and torn.  
Ever letter wore a different coloured and sized envelope, like they were each written and mailed by a seperate person, or one individual who simply didn’t have access to letter materials. Some of the notes were as large as a standard telegram, while some others were almost as large as a newspaper.  
Inside each envelope, no matter the size, were long, detailed letters. From the top left corner to the bottom right corner they were covered with scribbled cursive words directed towards the woman in question who had received them.  
Chane stood up from the corner of her soft double bed and made her way to the writing desk placed delicately in the corner of her living space. The wood of the table was almost nonexistent with the amount of scrunched paper covering every inch of its splintered surface, making it appear more like a mail cabinet than a writing space.  
The raven haired woman gently gripped one of the letters from the top of the large pile between her thumb and forefinger. She brought the small, egg shell toned envelope to her face and eyed it intently with a fiery stare, like the paper was mocking her.  
This particular letter was much more well kept than the other ripped and torn mail. It’s white surface felt flat and smooth as Chane grazed her fingertips against its fresh covering. She let her fingers slide to the mailing stamp resting in the notes corner and eyeballed the date when the clean letter was mailed to her home.  
17th of September. Yesterday.  
It was one of the newer letters she had received over the past few months.  
Over the summer, Chane had been receiving mountains of letters in her inbox each week. She was never one to get a lot of mail, so she was very perplexed at the first sight of half a dozen letters crammed in her postbox. She was then further confused as she read the return address, mailers name and eyed the differing shapes and sizes of the colourful letters.  
The odd situation did not get any better when she eventually realised every piece of mail was from the exact same person and address.  
Chane heaved a deep, shaky breath and carefully slid her finger to the mailers name and return address printed on the smooth white surface.  
Ladd Russo, Alcatraz prison.  
She had first encountered the titular male just half a year ago in the cold winter of Chicago.  
They had been on the same train to NewYork that icy night, both bringing dangerous groups clad in black and white along on their seperate missions aboard the Locomotive.  
Through out the evening the two groups eventually broke apart, due to seperate goals or unexplainable violent murders, with Chane ending up of the train carriages rooftop. There she encountered the psychotic hitman, Ladd Russo, clad in a bloody snow coloured suit.  
They fought several times that night before their battles were eventually broken up by a witty crimson conductor brandishing a gun and a noose, who would become the females bloody saviour.  
The fights they had were extremely intense and scarily violent. She had no idea what would have happened to her furious body if the monster like conductor had not come to save the day that fateful night. Her rage induced instincts could have gotten her killed, thrown onto the speeding train tracks by the Russo family hitman.  
Ladd had learnt a lot of personal information about Chane through out the train ride, but still she did not know how or why the arrested male was sending letters to her home.  
That unknown reasoning behind the frightening mail chilled Chane to her core, but what was within the suspicious letters was even more terrifying and perplexing than the silent woman could ever imagine.  
She cautiously ripped open the side of the paper and slid out the thin folded letter. Opening the sheet, Chanes morbid curiosity forced herself to read the words scribbled across the insides, despite the acidic liquid rising up her throat in protest. 

Dear Chane Laforet  
I am certain you have been receiving my love letters, but still you haven’t replied.  
Are you still upset about what happened on the Flying Pussyfoot, because I’m not. After all, I was just showing you my love, my dear Chane.  
It’s so lonely here in Prison. Every moment I’m trapped in here I can’t help but think about your beauty and the way you tried to kill me on that train.  
You have no idea what stuff I fantasise doing to your stunning, slender body when I’m locked in my cell at night. Oh the things I want to do to you, my lovely Chane.  
I want to pin your thin, pale frame to the cool steel of the trains roof as you try your very best to break free from my tight grasp. I want you to kick and growl as I forcibly silence your angered protests with passionate, wet kisses.  
Oh how I want to lift up your stunning velvet gown and gaze upon your wonderful, snow toned legs. And how I would touch those beautiful thighs of yours, and grope at your soft, delicate skin.  
Just thinking about what I’d do next makes my body more jazzed than any amount of killing could...

Chane noticed a small, faded clear stain on the note, which almost covered up several of the paragraphs descriptive words. She didn’t have to look twice to guess what the transparent, sticky mark was or where it came from.  
Twisting her face in disgust, the young woman forcibly continued to read the sickening letter, nausea building deep in her knotted stomach like a flood. 

...Once I’ve finished exploring your soft flesh, I would finally mark you as my own, Chane. I’d do to you what I did to my darling Lua when she finally excepted my yearning love.  
I’d enter your warm insides and mark you with my seed. I’d thrust in violently, making sure you remember the moment your beautiful body became the property of the one and only, Ladd Russo.  
I’d do it for hours, trying out all my wildest fantasies on you. Oh the things I imagine in this cell...

The letter continued that way, expressing in disturbingly graphic detail the sick sexual activities the man would try on Chane in his lonely dreams. The confused and disgusted woman only made it a quarter way through the long telegram before deciding to skim the rest, as to not make herself vomit all over her Oakwood bedroom floor.  
Every letter Chane has received from the imprisoned man followed the exact same, bizarre format.  
The scribbled words would begin innocently enough, featuring standard desperate confessions of love and yearning loneliness. Then they would take a sudden lust filled turn as the messy paragraphs continued, turning into twisted and seemingly random descriptions of sexual assault.  
The worst part of it all was that the man was writing about Chane, adding her into the vividly illustrated perverted fantasies like she was simply a fictional character he had a crush on.  
Even though the words revolted the aforementioned woman to her stomach, she couldn’t help but keep reading the criminals letters. Every time she received one she would rip open its packaging and scrunch it slowly in her fists as she laid her enraged eyes on the sick words.  
It was almost like she needed to know what Ladd Russo was thinking about her, despite how twisted those thoughts were. The distasteful writing slowly turned strangely addictive, the sick words fuelling her hatred towards the male like a drug.  
Most of the mail Chane had gotten from this man described basic sexual fantasies any lonely person would imagine. Many of the letters, especially the earlier ones from a few months ago, were full of stories of Chane being groped and penetrated by the writer in many different ways and places.  
But lately the letters had began to turn darker and more deviant, featuring images of the woman being raped and forced into strange, violent situations.  
This one for instance, contained a disturbingly detailed dream the man had whilst sleeping in his cell a few nights ago.  
In the sick fantasy Ladd had sexual assaulted Chane several times in the back of one of the Russo families Speakeasy's, describing everything from bloody penetration to blowjobs within his account. Then later in the dream, once he was tired of having sex with her, the crazed man had given permission to some of his fellow gang members to have their way with the exhausted woman as well, describing it again, in graphic detail.  
Chane squinted at the messy words as a shiver ran down her spine, the sight of her tied up, naked body from the narration imbedded into her aching skull like a sharp blade. The silent woman shook her head vigorously from side to side as if to shake the memory out of her brain, but only more of it returned.  
A horrifyingly vivid image of five burly men raping her broken frame as she silently screamed forced its way into the woman’s terrified mind.  
Chane delicately placed the latest letter, now completely read and scrunched up, onto the overflown desk with uncontrollable shaking hands.  
Even though her brain was stuffed to the brim with enough nightmares to last a lifetime, the woman still continued to eye the letters, as if to clarify their existence. With jittering fingers, Chane pulled a particularly large letter from the top of the unkept pile to her dilated golden globes.  
The brown toned letter was one Chane had received just a few weeks prior. Skimming over the creased papers words, the woman was reunited with more oddly addicting, disturbing images conjured up by the imprisoned male.  
The long third paragraph of the note featured a remarkably disturbing tale the man had imagined whilst locked in solitary for assaulting a fellow inmate. The words on the dirt coloured paper were scribbled harshly, with many spelling errors riddling the sentences, almost like the story was written through violent rage.  
The fantasy involved both Chane and the authors submissive fiancé, Lua Klein, which was extremely odd, as the woman had never been brought up in any of the previous mails stories.  
In this new, experimental dream the crazed man had locked both himself and the quiet females in an apartment suite together. From there he forced the two to do unspeakable, perverted activities, from sucking his member off one by one, to being pressured to masturbate at gunpoint while the other female was raped right in front of them.  
Chane gulped down a stream of vomit before skimming over the end of the seemingly never ending paragraph. She had read the titular letter many times, but she felt like she needed to read over it once more, as if to prove that she was not simply making it up in her perplexed head.  
Slowly scanning, the woman eventually made it to the last part of the long story, the part that she was certain wasn’t real and was just a figment of her overactive imagination. Unfortunately, it was there, clear as day, painted on the page in the mans angry looking cursive letters.  
In the final act of the disturbing fantasy Ladd had decided to finally bring one of his deepest, most perverse dreams to life.  
There, on the filthy queen sized bed, he forced both the exhausted women to have their way with each other while he watched, pleasuring himself to the scene like it was a dirty movie. The act was described vividly on the letters paper, graphically detailing the women’s expressions, emotions and movements, as well as the masturbating mans sick inner thoughts.  
Chane’s dinner almost came right back up her throat as she read the unorthodox sex scene between herself and the insane mans girlfriend. She forced herself, despite the nausea in her cramped stomach, to read the graphic recounts of her privates being harshly fingered, her tender breasts being groping and the sight of the aroused hitman messily cumming all over her shaken frame.  
She eventually managed to close her eyes to block the sick words, but all she could see was the couples flushed grinning faces staring right back at her through the darkness.  
Chane timidly placed the large letter onto the tip of the unkept pile, her eyes still squinted tightly closed like window shutters on a stormy day. Without looking, she snatched a small stack of mail from the top of the mountain with quivering fingers.  
Reopening her dilated globes the terrified woman quickly flicked through the thin pile of postcard sized letters from Ladd Russo. They had all mysteriously turned up in her mailbox over the past couple of weeks, and just like the others, they all followed the exact same oddly addicting, sickening and worrisome formula.  
Chane rapidly sped through the short letters, skimming their sentences for any particularly startling, almost unreal sounding tales of perverted insanity.  
One of the postcards only featured a short list, no other writing or paragraphs besides that standard “dear” and “from.” Each dot point detailed a strange object the man had used on the woman in his sick dreams, including, but not limited to, alcohol bottles, office supplies, miscellaneous phallic shaped tools and even weapons.  
Chane internally cringed as she read one of the final dot points which described the imprisoned male slowly shoving the barrel of a shotgun into the woman’s lower opening. The cringing slowly turned into nausea as her active imagination got the best of her, creating a twisted, gory image of the trigger going off within her cervix.  
Chane painfully gulped down a stream of bile before continuing to the next discomforting letter, all the while trying her best to erase the horrid, bloody scene from her mind. She shook her head from side to side, attempting to shake the image out of her brain, but all it did was rejoin the others, as one disturbed mans sickening fantasy.  
The second postcard sized letter was written much more harshly than the last, it’s distorted words scribbled all over the place. The raven haired woman tried with all her might to read the incomprehensible hand writing, but no matter how she strained her eyes all she could see was seemingly random sentences.  
She did, however, make out certain phrases which chilled her body to the bone. She stared at the card with horrified, wide eyes as words like ‘Fuck,’ ‘Bitch’ and ‘Whore’ jumped off the page in scratchy, angry letters.  
Chane scrunched the postcard into a ball with shaking hands before violently hurling it to the wooden floor. Taking a few deep, shuttered breaths, the silent woman quickly moved on to the last short letter, her odd addiction controlling her every move.  
The final postcard featured yet another vividly disturbing, sexual fantasy from the twisted mind of Ladd Russo.  
Unlike the last letter, this one was written fairly cleanly, with calm cursive letters. At first glance it seemed almost like a standard piece of mail written by a sane individual, but that of course wasn’t true as Chane skimmed over the first nausea inducing paragraph in the mans story.  
The first few sentences detailed a creepy fantasy of the man stalking Chane while she walked through the streets of NewYork on a cold dark night. It was written in a fairly disjointed way, with the story randomly shifting from what that man was seeing to what he was thinking, all the while profanities riddled the crazed sentences.  
From there the tale shifted to the man pouncing on Chane as she made her way into a dark, abandoned alleyway. Then, much like the other letters, the story suddenly turned into a random mess of disturbing, perverse dreams and rape fantasies.  
One short paragraph detailed the helpless woman being violently penetrated in the rear, causing tearing and significant blood loss. Another described a scene where the woman was groped so hard that her tender breasts began bleeding through cuts formed by the mans oddly sharp fingernails. Another short paragraph detailed a disgusting scene of Chane being forced to lick her own bodily fluids from the sick mans privates, including blood, sweat and even small pieces of gore.  
One of the final scenes in the twisted letter featured probably the most messed up tale of them all, with the woman being brutally murdered as her body continued to be violated. The insane mans sentences described vomit inducing images of strangulation, genital mutilation, molestation and forced masturbation, all the while written in his usual joyful, yet angry way.  
That was the moment when Chane finally broke.  
Suddenly dropping the ripped and torn letter onto the wooden floor she lurched forward as pain traveled through her cramping abdomen. Falling limp next to the piece of paper the woman let out a blood curdling groan before violently spewing right onto the shiny floorboards.  
The acidic liquid created a large puddle under the writing desk, drenching a few of the carelessly dropped postcards. Chane heaved as more vomit dripped down her chin, stinging cramps stabbing at her tight stomach like needles.  
She could not think straight, the only thing going through her mind being distorted images of her frame being continuously assaulted by the sick Russo family hitman. The horrifying sex scenes twirled through her aching brain, destroying her psyche from the inside out.  
Chane shuddered and coughed, spraying more acid under the desk.  
Holding her stomach with twitching fingers the woman collapsed onto the hard floor, her head hitting the putrid puddle of digested food. Chane did not care as the sick, acidic smell hit her nostrils, her mind simply wouldn’t let her. All her shattered mind was capable of was reimagining the psychotic mans fantasies.  
Hot tears slowly dripped down her cheeks as more of the stories returned to her disturbed brain. She tried her best to push them away, but it was no use, the once strong, fiery woman had now become too ill and weak to fight.  
It was at that moment that someone walked in.  
The sound of the old door creaking open caused the distressed woman to rapidly glance at the frame, her wide eyes full of anxiety. Her paranoid mind feared that the figure in the door was Ladd Russo ready to break her for real, even though deep down, she knew that was physically impossible.  
Chane sighed and weakly smiled when she realised it was not the imprisoned man, but her saviour, the only one that could save her from all this horrid pain.  
Claire Stanfield, the conductor who had rescued the silent, broken woman from Ladd once, would now do so again.


End file.
